


The Viktor Nikiforov Affair

by YankingAwry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drama, Heist AU, Humour, M/M, Romance, and viktor "more pink cashmere!" nikiforov, featuring agent yuuri "i will not be seduced by immoral russian criminal" kastuki, my biggest gayest thanks to the thomas crown affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: Viktor tries wooing Yuuri. Yuuri will not be wooed. And then there's the small matter of Viktor being a Russian master criminal art thief extraordinaire, Yuuri being the Interpol agent assigned to handle him, and the imminent theft of a hundred million dollar painting.





	The Viktor Nikiforov Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnwatso (tyrells)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrells/gifts).



> this fic is for the luminous & talented bruna ([moriarty](https://moriarty.tumblr.com)). it's probably bad form to gift someone the fic you made them beta, but i can't help it! she's so funny & so patient & UNREAL [poetic cinema meme except bottom text is 'BRUNA']
> 
> shoutout to amy ([toxicsemicolon](https://toxicsemicolon.tumblr.com)) who was down with the freaking FLU: this didn't stop her or the ocd from giving those characteristically incisive insights, and single-handedly SAVING the epilogue. i love u ames

                 

 

 

                

 

 

-| MARCH 31, 2005: SEVEN DAYS TO GO |-

 

 

Yuuri Katsuki had watched the tapes they’d copied from the German police in Köln: there were two.

The first was a straightforward camera angle on the crux: a 3rd century, watercolour illustrated edition of the _Kamasutra_. It was privately owned by a Qatari oil merchant who had lent it for a month-long special exhibition to the _Museum der Sexuellen Kunste_ , where it was slated to be the main attraction for the duration of March. For three weeks of peak tourist season, the book had sat on prime display in the Nabel, the central exhibition room of the museum, where it was guarded by 24-hour surveillance cameras and a state-of-the-art motion detector system installed along the walls. In the early hours of 24th March 2005, faintly illuminated and cordoned on four sides by velvet rope barriers, the _Kamasutra_ seemed imposingly secure.

The second tape was from another camera in the same room, trained on the double-doored entrance which was the only way in or out. As recorded by this tape on 24th March, with seven days until the end of the exhibition and the subsequent packing and shipping away of the _Kamasutra_ back to Oman, at 1:22:02, Viktor Nikiforov disabled the alarm and opened the doors.

At 01:23:38, he made an impossible leap from the doors to the nearest display cabinet. The glass structure shuddered in the grainy footage, and Nikiforov steadied himself, surveying the floor. It was a complex meshwork of patrolling lasers, sixteen sets of them: crossing each other, pausing, and then doubling back in intricate patterns. Judging by the way he settled cross-legged on top of the cabinet, Nikiforov was not considering another feat of acrobatics to get him through to where the book laid, ten metres dead ahead.

From 01:23:52 to 01:43:20, he sat, head bowed: the only movement was the hypnotic tracking of lasers across the floor.

Yuuri figured it out on the second rewatch, staring as Nikiforov alternated between tapping a rhythm out on his knee and glancing at his wristwatch: the man was _memorising_ the entire sequence.

At 01:43:21, Nikiforov lowered his legs, landed on the ground, and began to work his way to the center of the room. It was agonising work, done increment by increment: slow twists, quick ducks, and abrupt periods where he held himself tight and motionless as the lasers seemed to come close to skinning him. Yuuri had watched this tape six, maybe seven (okay, a full eight) times over: still, his heart rocketed right into his throat every time at 01:52:29, when Nikiforov seemed to fumble a landing out of nowhere, wobbling dangerously on his left ankle, chest tipping forward—before melting into a spectacular slide underneath three simultaneously descending beams. 

As Plisetsky had put it, “This motherfucker can _dance_.”

01:53:03, Nikiforov came up behind the velvet ropes and entered the frame of the first camera’s footage, pulling off his ski mask. He took out his drill, and switched it on. 02:12:44, he packed his drill away and carefully lifted up the glass case.

The footage didn’t have sound, but you could pinpoint the exact second the alarms began to ring by the way Nikiforov’s head jerked up.

“Amen for the weight sensors,” Babicheva said, before clinking coffee mugs with everyone grouped around her at the office viewing. Even Plisetsky allowed his steel flask to be jostled by the lowly Styrofoam cups. Broad consensus on the 3rd floor of the Illegal Trafficking of Arts division at Interpol Headquarters was that Nikiforov should’ve stuck to figure-skating. 

“He used to figure-skate?” Yuuri asked, trying not to sound more interested than he was.

“No surprises there,” Plisetsky said. “One in three babies in Russia grows up to be an Olympic figure-skater. It’s ice country, home ground advantage.” And that made Yuuri want to hug the kid: he was trying _really_ hard. Yuri Plisetsky, of course, would down a pitcher of battery acid before he admit to doing anything of the sort. He’d joined the division last December at the tender age of 20, and used his work ethic like a battering ram against anyone who tried to make tentative human contact with him. Only after the _pierogi_ incident did Plisetsky forgive him for phonetically sharing his first name: this was helped along by the fact the two of them worked in an occupation where everyone’s first name was ‘Agent’.

“So, were you baby number two, or three?”

“What about devil’s spawn? Do you think there’s a separate census category for that?” said McTavish blandly, breezing past their cluster of cubicles on her way to the conference room. Alex McTavish was the head of their division. She kept them all on a very long and comfortable leash—not strictly out of the generosity of her heart, though Yuuri thought they could get her to admit she liked her agents if they tried hard enough, maybe even get her to do it sober—but more because it brought the best results.

Today she was wearing a suit, which meant she was meeting more than one person higher up than her on the food chain. Yuuri flashed his boss a thumbs up, which was met with a grim smile. Unto the breach, etc., etc.

“I still think you’re a fetus, and do not qualify for census reporting as such,” Babicheva said. Plisetsky articulated his response with two fingers. 

 

-|-

  

Twenty minutes later, Babicheva interrupted Yuuri’s workflow by sliding a file onto his desk. It was warm, fresh off the photocopier, titled ‘NIKIFOROV, VIKTOR’. She flipped open her own copy with an expression of masochistic interest better suited for an issue of _Maxim_ , and then jerked her chin at his copy: “Get on with it.”

Babicheva had joined Interpol around the same time as him, and they’d even trained for a while together at Quantico: two American children of immigrants, gearing to be Federal agents. She’d wanted to pursue a career in Narcotics, him in Counter-terrorism. Pragmatism got them in a chokehold before long, and they’d both ended up outside the same interview room in Lyon four years later, resumès in hand (“ _I want to make love to this salary package. I want to have children with it,_ ” Mila had said, and Yuuri had nodded, feelingly).

The file was sparse. Nikiforov was an orphan, which jolted Yuuri a little. All right. He’d grown up in a convent, and indeed trained as a figure skater for a while—winning a few regional competitions before being swept under the cloak of the Baranovskayas, one of Russia’s illustrious crime families.

Yuuri’s line began to ring. He ignored it.

Gutenberg Bibles, Aivazovskys and Kandinskys—a highly publicised affair with a Baron’s son in ’95—Yuuri thumbed through five pages before the information abruptly ran dry, somewhere around the April of 1997, when Nikiforov finished off a contract for the daughter-in-law of the boss of Japan’s second-largest yakuza organization.

His line stopped ringing, and Babicheva’s started. He heard her pick it up, then: “Katsuki, it’s your mother.”

Yuuri sat upright instantly and grabbed his own telephone, which had begun to ring again. “Ma?” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Yuuri-kun,” his mother laughed. “No time for this old woman these days, hm?”

“No, ma,” he said, deeply chagrined. “I’m so sorry—I, uh, didn’t hear the phone ring. How are you, how’s papa? And Mari?”

“We are all well. How is Mila?” she asked conspiratorially. Yuuri suppressed a groan.

“She’s _fine_ ,” he said.

“You are lonely, Yuuri,” she warned, and this time he did groan. “You need a dog. Or someone to make you tea or coffee in the mornings. Wouldn’t that be nice? Your father makes me _hōjicha_ every morning.”

“Yes, that is very nice.” Yuuri said. They talked some more: a popular steel crockery brand had agreed to a sponsorship deal with his family’s hot spring establishment, which was a coup indeed. His mother sounded very happy about it. She told him Mari was much the same: smoking, and uttering one deadpan comment after what was often months of silence. By the time he hung up, he had resolved to call her the next time round, and turned back to his work. 

The report ended with: “The nature of the contract has yet to be definitively ascertained, but trusted sources believe Mr. Nikiforov to have successfully hunted down the lost 4th Imperial Egg”, and then there was a photo of Nikiforov from somewhere that year, black-and-white and smeared just so, as if he’d decided to tilt his head as it was being taken. He was sitting under a canopy at a restaurant in Cape Town, in conversation with—Yuuri’s eyes skimmed down—Juan Márquez, an elderly cotton importer and not-insignificant donor to the People’s Party. Martini glasses hung loose in their fingers, catching the sun. 

Nikiforov’s fringe was swept back by a pair of sunglasses, and a smile lifted one side of his face. He looked glamourous: there was no other word for it. Like thieving was something he did for kicks, and socialising with the obscenely rich was his real calling.

“He assisted on that ’95 sting, the Aivovsky.” Yuuri said after turning it over in his head, and Babicheva looked up. “ _Descent of Noah_. Broad daylight and three hours before discovery, with _the_ Yakov Feltsman. He’s not an amateur.”

“Right,” Babicheva said slowly, waiting for him to finish.

Yuuri drummed his fingers on the closed file for a few seconds. “He missed the weight sensors,” he said.

Babicheva said, “Ah,” understanding, and then shrugged. “He’s been out of the game for seven years. Technology’s changed up, and there are new players. He’s been off our radar for a reason.” And then she said: “A 21st century art thief would’ve hacked the operating system instead of cramming nine minutes’ worth of random fucking laser sequence. Nikiforov’s type is extinct.” She paused. “But that doesn’t mean his intel isn’t good.”

“You and your double negatives,” Yuuri said. Babicheva rolled her eyes.

The whispers all concurred: _Punto Rojo_ , currently valued as the most expensive contemporary painting in the world (107 million USD, which would take Yuuri about one thousand and seven hundred years, plus change, to earn on his current income—a bit longer without overtime) would be stolen on the day of its exclusive 24-hour loan to the _Museo Del Arbol_ in Madrid. It was owned by an anonymous collector, and the event had been marketed months in advance by both the museum administrators and the Ministry of Tourism. Interpol had even discovered, extraordinarily enough, an advance listing for the _Punto Rojo_ in “mint condition” on a low-level fencer’s website (they hadn’t bothered with encryption). It was funny, sure, but also illuminating: the hairs on the underbelly of the art world were quivering in anticipation of _something_ , and this seemed to be it.

Which made the detainment of Nikiforov good timing.

 

 

 -| APRIL 2, 2005: FIVE DAYS TO GO |- 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov arrived in cuffs to Lyon two days later. One of the agents accompanying him circled the bullpen for a while, looking drained and desperate, resisting all of Yuuri’s gentle offers of assistance, and then spent a lot of time at the coffee machine trying to make it dispense alcohol.

“Good luck,” was all she told Yuuri, before heaving her partner out of Yuuri’s chair.

They had deposited him in an interrogation room. It was decided (by short straw) that Yuuri would run point on the initial overture.

Yuuri spent a few minutes observing the captive behind the two-way mirror. It was a strange feeling, trying to superimpose the Nikiforov in the file photo over the Nikiforov sitting upright in his chair and examining the holding room pensively, only to find the two didn’t line up quite right: this Nikiforov certainly looked older. Not seven years’ worth of age, maybe, but it was there. His hairline was receding, which was maybe why he had grown out the half-fringe so ostentatiously down to his eyebrows. There was the little deepening whorl of scalp in the middle of all that silver too. But his face didn’t seem too lined, and he was in trim shape. He looked— _handsome_ , Yuuri thought, testing the word in his head. 

Nikiforov turned his head and looked straight at him. 

Yuuri flinched in spite of himself—but no, he couldn’t, there was no way. It was freaky, though. Nikiforov then tipped his head back, and Yuuri stood there, watching his frustrated attempts to stretch while both of his hands still linked. His shirt dipped, revealing a small mole on his collarbone. The fact of it was like a slap of water to Yuuri’s face; this was getting voyeuristic. He collected his files, and pushed his spectacles firmly up his nose.

When Yuuri stepped into the holding room, Nikiforov turned towards him, features instantly rearranging into something blank—then, a calculated sweep of gaze across Yuuri, from head to toe—before breaking into a wide, relieved smile, which would seem sincere if you hadn’t been looking for the micro-expressions leading up to it. There was a prickling sensation on the back of Yuuri’s neck, even as he involuntarily offered a smile back. All right. So Nikiforov was _really_ good this. 

“Hi!”

“Uh, hello, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Nikiforov raised his eyebrows, waiting for something, and then Yuuri remembered—of course, Nikiforov didn’t know who he was at all. Yuuri took a seat on the opposite end of the table, and introduced himself.

“I’m Yuuri Katsuki. Agent Katsuki, Agent Yuuri, uh, plain Yuuri—you can address me however you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Nikiforov said, earnestly. “And you will call me Viktor, I hope?” The Russian accent was there, and strong: in the odd stress of a consonant, the alien positioning of lilts.

Yuuri pressed back a smile. He was charmed, in spite of knowing the charm was a sham. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Alas.”

“I’m supposed to brief you on what’s expected of you when we land in Spain.”

Nikiforov gestured, so Yuuri continued, “You’ve, um, been involved in a lot thefts. We don’t have the evidence to charge you on half of our suspicions, and the statute might have run out on the other half—this you know. But as for the matter of the _Kamasutra_ , we do. We have a tape, and you’re on it. This, too, you know.

“We have reason to suspect an attempt to steal the _Punto Rojo_ will be made five days from now.” And here, a crease of surprise appeared on Viktor’s forehead. “If you provide us with substantial advice or information which leads to the prevention of its theft, Interpol will be in a comfortable enough position to strike a deal with the German Police for extreme leniency. You probably won’t have to see the inside of a cell at all.

“However, your assistance _does_ need to be adjudged as substantive. If we are unable to prevent the theft—or no attempt at theft occurs at all—or we _do_ prevent the theft, but with close to zero cooperation or value addition from you, you will be handed back to the German police. Mr. Mubarak has very close friends in the German bureau, and they _will_ prosecute.”

“That is a very narrow road to freedom, Yuuri,” Nikiforov observed after several moments of silence. 

Yuuri realised that he agreed, even as the thought _he’s a stone-cold criminal_ flashed neon in his mind. He appraised Nikiforov again, seeing the things he had been a little swept away by to notice in the two-way mirror. His face had something of a sallow pallour, his hair the faint sheen of oil from being unwashed. Dragged from one cell to another, he was now being asked to betray a code which he had spent his entire adult life adhering to. Yuuri knew he was a stone-cold criminal, he _did_ —but he felt bad for him, a little.

So he said, gentler, “Look, I’m your handler. There’s a team with other highly skilled agents who have their own duties, but my main concern is making sure you’re all right. Which means _your_ well-being, _your_ safety, these are as much my priority as making sure the _Punto Rojo_ doesn’t get stolen. What I’m trying to say is—the agency doesn’t want you miserable. _I_ don’t want you miserable. Do you understand?”

Nikiforov’s eyes were wide: he was looking at Yuuri with an entirely different quality now.

“I just think,” Yuuri ploughed on when he was met by more silence, “that things will go better if we’re honest with each other. So that you don’t have to—feel compelled to behave the way you did with Agents Coon and Mbatha.”

“I.” Nikiforov stopped, unsure. Yuuri nodded, trying to look encouraging.

Then, with sudden movement, Nikiforov thrust out his wrists and murmured, “My wrists are hurting.” He’d drawn his bottom lip in with his teeth, and looked at the floor, as if embarrassed to be admitting it at all.

Yuuri said nothing for a moment. A deep frisson of annoyance ran through him. Fine, so it was going to be like that. He took out the silver pin and leaned forward to unlock the cuffs. A spasm of shock moved through Nikiforov’s face. In one fluid motion, Yuuri cast aside the cuffs and slapped on a monitoring bracelet, firming it against Nikiforov’s right wrist before dropping his hands.

“This is a location tracker, and it fits _very_ tight, so don’t worry about chafing,” Yuuri said in a hard voice.

Then, he picked up the discarded handcuffs with one finger, and tilted them so Nikiforov could see: “These are coated on the inside with neoprene. They can’t chafe. I told you, _be honest_ ,” and Nikiforov let out a startled breath before laughing out loud, a sound of pure delight.

The initial shock had cleared from his features, and now he held himself looser, met Yuuri’s eyes easier, like a whole lot more than handcuffs had unlocked and given way between them. “What did you think was going to happen? That I would open the door for you on the way out, after everything I said?”

“I was taking your measure.”

“You were manipulating me.”

Viktor made a dismissive sound: “We are describing the same tomato. The rest is—how do you say—” he put a finger to his chin, before his eyes brightened, “semantics.”

“Do you understand the terms of your deal?”

“You really are something.”

“Mr. Nikiforov,” Yuuri said, as coolly he could.

“Will you not call me Viktor?”

A beat, then: “Semantics, wasn’t that what you called it?” and there: that incredible smile again, spreading through Nikiforov’s face like sunlight.

 

 

 -| APRIL 3, 2005: FOUR DAYS TO GO |-

 

 

Yuuri tugged Nikiforov into the crumbling booth, picked up the receiver, and starting doling change into the coin slot.

"Are we calling your mother?” Nikiforov asked, leaning close and looking very interested in the proceedings.

“No,” Yuuri said, taken aback. He _had_ been planning on calling his mother that very evening. “Who drives four miles out of city limits and calls their mother from a payphone?”

“Everyone I work with,” Nikiforov replied, and that got a laugh out of Yuuri.

“We’re calling my source,” he explained.

Nikiforov’s face soured. “Then why do you need me?”

“I want you on standby,” he said, and began punching in the digits. Nikiforov rested his head against the dirty glass wall, watching Yuuri do it. The booth was small to start with, but both of them were men of decent height—they were well and truly cramped in. Yuuri was just about done when Nikiforov’s eyes slid to his mouth, then back up again: he caught Yuuri’s eye and smiled, unabashed.

Yuuri’s fingers fumbled and he double pressed the hash. “Damn!” he let out, frustrated, and then groped for his pocket, trying not to brush against Nikiforov. A few coins slipped out of his fingers—and before they could hit the floor, Nikiforov had caught all of them with a neat twist of his hand. He passed them to Yuuri in silence.

Feeling very out of his depth, Yuuri repeated the process from the beginning, decidedly not looking at Nikiforov’s face this time.

“Hello?” came the tinny voice.

“Hello,” Yuuri said, forgetting all the turmoil in his stomach for an instant. It was good to hear his friend’s voice. “It’s me, Yuuri.”

“You _asshole_ —” Phichit said, and something crashed noisily in the background, “—I’m okay, nothing happened! How are you? Are you eating well? Instant noodles is not food, I hope I don’t have to remind you—”

“Uh, you don’t,” Yuuri said, pressing the receiver into his ear and feeling conscious of Nikiforov’s gaze.

“You’re not alone, are you?” Phichit asked, audibly smiling.

“No,” Yuuri said, apologetically. “I actually had a question about the _Punto Rojo_ —”

“Of course you did,” Phichit said, a sigh traveling all the way from Thailand to France. “I already told you, I don’t know who’s on the job.” 

“I know, but—” and Yuuri looked straight at Nikiforov as he said his next words: “Have you heard anything about Viktor Nikiforov trying to make this particular lift?”

Nikiforov startled, then gave him an impressed look.

“No,” Phichit said, sounding surprised, “nothing. And if you’re asking for my personal opinion? No way. Contemporary art—not at all his style. And the fencing situation would be a nightmare, he’s way too smart for that. But wait—haven’t you heard? They caught Viktor in Germany! Köln of all places, I heard it was quite the clusterfuck—” Nikiforov let out a small huff of laughter at that. So he _could_ hear their conversation.

“Oh, all right. I’ll look into it. Thank you so much—I have to go now. Say hi to your kids from me,” Yuuri said.

“I’ll give them your smooches,” Phichit said. “Maybe one day you’ll call me and it won’t be work-related.”

“One day. Bye now, Phichit,” Yuuri answered, smiling.

“Well done,” Nikiforov said, once he had hung the receiver over the hook. “So I have been crossed off your list, yes?”

“I couldn’t take the chance,” Yuuri said. “You know how it is.”

Nikiforov smiled. “This source, he knows a lot about me.”

“I think you know a lot about him too,” Yuuri said, careful. He stepped out of the booth, and looked back at Nikiforov. “He’s retired now.”

“Ah,” Nikiforov said, ponderously. Then: “Were you lovers?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri said. “Not at all! Why would you—”

“Okay,” Nikiforov shrugged, already having accepted the answer and moving on. “Strange for man in our profession to have children.”

“That’s—no. No, he doesn’t have children.”

“Oh.”

“Hamsters. He owns lots of them.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Nikiforov said again, brightening with understanding.

 

 

 -| APRIL 4, 2005: THREE DAYS TO GO |-

 

 

“Do you know what an ethical hacker is?”

Nikiforov gave a small smile and spun the ball point pen between his fingers. “Am I your ethical art thief?”

“Just so.” Yuuri flattened out a new page of his notebook, and then turned on the tape recorder for posterity. “How would you steal the _Punto Rojo_?”

“Well.” He put the nib of his pen between his teeth, and pursed his lips. “I would already be in Madrid, maybe last week, casing this museum.”

“For two whole weeks?”

“Even earlier. It is about establishing pattern: you are ordinary. Maybe you are amateur art enthusiast! You spend two hours in one exhibit one day, oohing and ahing with a cheap Kodak in your hands. Next day, next exhibit. No one will look twice. If you start casing too late,” Nikiforov slapped the table, dramatically, “you miss details! Maybe extra security shift on Wednesday, or a hidden camera behind, what do you say, the, the—the scaffolding. And then they also catch you on the flight logs, because the arrival and departure window—too small.”

Yuuri nodded. “Got it, got it,” and made a note: requisition flight logs into Madrid for the past month, leading up to maybe five days before. They’d have to pull all-nighters, checking thousands of names and aliases against the database. “Can I have your list?”

Nikiforov handed over the paper on which he’d been writing. There were three names: J.J, The Gill, and 5ALA. “You know of them?” he asked, peering into Yuuri’s face.

“Oh, yes,” Yuuri said quietly, copying the names into his book. “These are some high-class hires.”

J.J. he was well-acquainted with, largely because J.J. made great pains to ensure everyone was acquainted with him. He had upended three major auctions in the last two years, each time an assistant wheeling out a painting onto the stage only for the bidders to discover an empty frame. His calling card was a napkin from the well-known Canadian fast-food franchise Jolly Joe, which had branches in over 80 countries. He left it everywhere, often embellished with little doodles or commentaries: “I ROCK” or, “Too much humidity, not a good hair day”, or once, a bicep with a crown on top of it, and the caption “My kingly musculature”.

Yuuri didn’t know a single agent on J.J.’s trail who didn’t obsess with connecting their fist to his face, preferably followed by a nice crunch sound.

The Gill and 5ALA he knew less about. They were more of ghosts than J.J., which wasn’t too high a bar to clear, but Interpol didn’t have their photos on file or know their genders. He had heard Plisetsky talk about 5ALA’s ability to hack into a mainframe with no small amount of profanity, which probably meant they were good at it. The Gill did most of their work through 1s and 0s too.

“So that’s—” Yuuri considered. “Flights out of Toronto, Montreal… Seoul, Jeju, probably Rome too. Assuming they’re travelling from their base and not elsewhere. But okay, we’ll give those priority.” He made the note, and asked lightly, “Any additions you would make?”

Nikiforov mouth twisted into something indulgent. “Major airports along East Coast states. J.J. likes to cross the border.”

Okay, good. Yuuri had already written down United States, but he was putting Nikiforov through small tests every now and then. Astonishingly enough, Nikiforov hadn’t outright lied to him about anything that might have worked to his advantage if withheld, but he didn’t volunteer information, either. Side-stepping by omission was the favoured tactic so far, which was fine with Yuuri. It just meant he had to keep asking outright questions.

“Uh, okay, this is good. This is really good,” and then he smiled at Nikiforov, because why the hell not. Being a Robocop wasn’t part of the job description. “Did someone get you dinner? Do you need me to pick up some Chinese, or—”

“You should change your tie,” Nikiforov said, smiling back. “The blue you wore on Tuesday—it looks very good on you. This colour—” and he made an exaggerated frown.

“Oh,” Yuuri said. Then: “Green isn’t so bad,” because that had come from so far left of field that he didn’t really know how to respond. He ducked his head and started clearing the table, trying not to feel visceral dismay at the itchy heat spreading across his face. When he looked up, Nikiforov was surveying him. Yuuri pushed the papers into a pile, and resisted the childish urge to put his hands on his hips. “What?”

“I am trying to—” Nikiforov paused. “I want to ask you on date,” he continued, and Yuuri dropped his head into his hands, quite done.

“Stop that,” he said, addressing the floor.

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to fluster me. It won’t work.”

“I am not _trying_ to fluster you. I am, and it is working.” Yuuri looked up, indignant and shy all at once. “Yes, conflict of interest, _et cetera_ , boring, but,” Nikiforov shrugged his shoulders, “I am not insane. _After_ this is all over. We get drinks? Or a smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” Yuuri said, reflexively.

“A drink, then,” Nikiforov said. “It is decided!”

“It is not!”

But Nikiforov was already glowing. “I promise not to seduce you before we catch this thief,” he said, throwing his fringe back and smiling sweetly at Yuuri. He was mad, and it didn’t matter at all: Yuuri felt so _fond_. It was no good being stern around Nikiforov, besides—that wasn’t how he would win this particular game.

So Yuuri steadied his voice and said, “You don’t need to make any such promise, Mr. Nikiforov. I _promise_ I won’t be seduced,” and Nikiforov laughed, shocked, putting a hand over his chest.

“You hurt my heart.”

“How terrible for you,” Yuuri replied, picking up the papers and walking over to the door. He flicked Nikiforov’s almost-bald spot, once, before stepping out. When he was nearly at his desk, he let himself glance back at the conference room, and Nikiforov was smiling at him through the glass panels. Yuuri quickly looked away, and walked into Babicheva.

She put two hands on his shoulder and pushed him back, eyeing him critically. Yuuri made to sit in his chair, but Babicheva neatly slid in before he could, propping her feet onto his desk.

“This is harassment.” Yuuri informed her. “I’m being harassed.”

“You’re being _hit on_ ,” Babicheva corrected, “by a detainee, no less.” She took a loud bite out of an apple Yuuri hadn’t even seen her carrying. Chewing, she eyed Yuuri some more. “Interesting.”

“Is it? You must be used to it. Men are,” Yuuri searched for the right word, “gross.”

“Mm. But that’s gross of a, like, 'I want to cum on your tits' variety. Nikiforov looks like he wants to get his teeth on a fucking rose stem—” 

“He gives Russians a bad name,” Plisetsky said, popping up from behind a cubicle wall and glowering in the direction of the conference room.

“For trying to woo our Yuuri?”

“No!” Plisetsky looked at Babicheva like she was a deranged person. “His criminal tendencies! And the hair!”

“I think his hair looks nice,” Yuuri said, and two sets of eyes immediately swiveled towards him.

“Oh my god, you _worm_ ,” Plisetsky spat, as Babicheva simultaneously said, “There’s literally only one rule for handling someone and it’s _don’t fuck them_ , and you’re breaking it, even though there’s just _one_ —”

“I’m not going to fuck him!” Yuuri yelled.

 

 

 -| APRIL 5, 2005: TWO DAYS TO GO |-

 

 

“You’re fucking me,” Nikiforov said, appalled. He turned the ‘I (HEART) SPAIN’ keychain in Babicheva’s direction, one hand bracing the bright pink neck pillow he hadn’t taken off after they landed, not even after immigration. “Five whole euros! This is theft in daylight!” She looked away from the knit scarf she’d been trying on by the mirror, and grimaced.

“Oh, theft? You mean that thing you do for a living?” Plisetsky said, a slight edge of hysteria to his voice. Yuuri, who was standing awkwardly by the postcard racks with nothing to do, felt bad for the kid. Plisetsky had been wedged between Babicheva and Nikiforov for the entire flight, resolutely staring forward while the two played raucous rounds of Blackjack on his tray table. He looked haunted.

They were halfway to the hotel, dividing the remaining flight logs amongst themselves, when Plisetsky suddenly lunged forward, saying “This mother _fucker_ —” and yanking at Nikiforov’s pockets, from which came tumbling dozens of those kitschy keychains. Babicheva asked the driver to stop the car, shoulders shaking. They left Plisetsky stranded on the sidewalk, furious, with fistfuls of the stuff and instructions to return them to the gift shop outside the airport. Nikiforov waved goodbye as the car pulled away.

“We were right there, fuck,” Babicheva said, bright-eyed. “Three of us. We were _on_ you.”

“It is not your fault,” Nikiforov said, and winked at Yuuri, who had been quiet this whole time. “Look at my Yuuri, _he_ knows. I am just that good.”

 

 -|-

 

When they reached the hotel, local law enforcement was waiting for them in the lobby. Babicheva handled the introductions like a pro. It always made Yuuri feel a sense of wonder, how ably she could tuck her foul-mouthed self away and become this shining exemplar of an Interpol officer.

“Did you receive the flight records we faxed over?” Inspector Altin asked. He was a young man, not much older than Yuuri, and his face was set like stone. Nikiforov had looked him over once before proclaiming his approval with a “Wow!” Now, he was inspecting the beautiful potted plants by the hotel’s revolving door. Yuuri kept an eye on him—not with enough subtlety, apparently, because Nikiforov kept sending him smirks over his shoulder.

“We did, thank you. I wanted to ask, will we be setting our communication devices to the same frequency as yours, or museum security?”

“Museum security,” and Babicheva nodded, satisfied, as Nikiforov audibly cooed. Yuuri turned. A small puppy was trying to enter the hotel, yelping every time the doors swished inwards. Nikiforov scooped the puppy up and walked over to where they stood, happily allowing his chin to be licked.

“She is so cute, is she not!” he said, as the hotel manager stared at them, visibly queasy.

“I don’t think strays are allowed inside the hotel,” Altin said, not seeming moved. The puppy was tiny; a shaggy mixed-breed thing, who really was heart-stoppingly cute.

“Then it is very fortunate that she is mine and that I carried her myself through immigration,” Nikiforov replied, not missing a beat. He flashed a smile at the manager, who flinched. “It’s okay, she is my dog. I think she was distracted by all the cars. We don’t have lots of cars in Russia.”

Just then, Plisetsky blazed past, and started rummaging for his suitcase among the luggage heap: all four of them blinked.

“Plisetsky, Inspector Altin is briefing us on the next thirty-six hours—” Babicheva said.

“I don’t give a _fuck_ ,” he said. “Catch me at the fucking _sauna_ —” and then his face snapped up, thunderous. Altin had put a hand on his shoulder.

Babicheva swore under her breath as a dozen sirens went off in Yuuri’s mind. Even _he_ didn’t give in to his more physically affectionate urges when it came to Plisetsky, and he’d known him for months. Touching Plisetsky without his written permission, sought a week’s advance prior to the event, was a dangerous game. People had lost limbs.

Altin said, quietly: “This will only take a few more minutes of your time. I would appreciate it if you were there.”

Plisetsky stared at him for several moments, and then sagged, having lost at something—Yuuri wasn’t sure what. Then, miraculously, he stomped over next to Babicheva and put his suitcase down with a thump, listening to the rest of the briefing in silence.

“—and if you need any assistance, here’s my number. We’ll take you to the _Arbol_ tomorrow so you can set up your equipment. It’s not very far from the hotel. Day after’s the opening, we’ll pick you up for that too.” Altin said, finishing up. “Your head of department—when will she be arriving?”

“The morning of the opening,” Yuuri replied. “She’s spoken with your office, I think.”

“Yes, great, this has been _riveting_ , can we please go now,” Plisetsky said, the lull having broken. Altin inclined his head, unsmiling, and Babicheva thanked him again. When they had all picked up their luggage and were waiting by the elevator, Plisetsky turned, going stock-still.

“That’s a helmet,” he said, sounding quite gutted. Yuuri looked up, and yes, Altin was speaking with one of the bellboys, and had a helmet tucked under his arm. Plisetsky, meanwhile, was developing a deeply troubled look on his face, one Yuuri had seen many times before: it was when Plisetsky realised he’d been an unmitigated asshole to someone he now needed a favour from.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and then shoved his suitcase at Yuuri. “Just—get this to my room.” They watched as he jogged over to Altin, whose face never seemed to change as Plisetsky gestured at him, wildly.

“What is he _saying_?” Babicheva asked. Altin began to walk away—and then looked back at Plisetsky, once, as if to say, _well?_ Plisetsky followed him to the hotel parking lot. Yuuri could just about make out Altin producing a spare helmet, which Plisetsky fitted over his head, before climbing onto the back of his motorbike.

“What the fuck,” Babicheva said, as the elevator doors closed, face pulled in a hundred directions by a hundred contrasting emotions. 

“Inspector Altin is a man of mystery,” Nikiforov said, scratching his puppy’s ear. “Is he not, Makkachin.”

Oh, no. “She has a name now?” Yuuri asked after a beat.

Nikiforov looked at him like he was being uncharacteristically slow. “Yes?”

“Okay. Uh, are you sure that’s a good idea? You won’t be able to take her back through immigration—” He paused, uncertain. “You know you won’t be able to take her back through immigration, right?”

“I will figure it out,” Nikiforov said, not quite meeting his eyes. Yuuri added ‘puppy smuggling’ to his mental Red Alert list. 

 

-|-

 

Nikiforov vanished with Makkachin into the bathroom as Yuuri entered Room 308, both their suitcases in hand. He dropped his backpack onto one of the chairs, and then lifted it again: an ‘I (HEART) SPAIN’ keychain was dangling from the zip. Yuuri laughed out loud, and then instantly sobered up. Feeling thoroughly conflicted, he crashed on the bed closest to the television.

Just before they’d left HQ, McTavish had sat him down and asked him very calmly, with her clear grey, omnipotent eyes, whether he wanted her to assign Nikiforov another handler.

“No,” Yuuri had said, bewildered. “I don’t—is there an issue with the way I’m handling him? I’d be happy to step aside—”

“No, agent,” she had said, drily. “Quite obviously it’s not your _performance_. But we don’t choose our sympathies,” and that—that sounded like a euphemism. “I don’t want you to do this unwillingly.”

All Yuuri had heard was: _everyone else is seeing something here that you aren’t._

The bathroom door opened after a while, and Nikiforov dumped a damp Makkachin onto the bed, clad only in his location tracker. Yuuri averted his eyes. When he chanced to look again, Nikiforov was sporting a towel around his midriff, along with a supremely amused expression on his face.

“Don’t make promise you will not keep, Yuuri,” he said, and did a deliberate little shimmy in Yuuri’s direction as he hunted for clothes. Yuuri laughed, reaching for the remote.

“You have your own bed,” Yuuri warned, without turning around, once he had settled on a nice Spanish cooking channel. He didn’t have an ear for the language, but he could tell they were making tiramisu: long sponge biscuits soaked in a toffee-brown liquid concoction. There was the sound of pillows being adjusted: Nikiforov’s ankles appeared, making a dent in the space on the bedding next to him. Yuuri did turn, then. Nikiforov was lounging in loose pyjamas, hugging one of the pillows from his own bed (he had left one behind, for Makkachin, presumably, though she was curled asleep amid the blankets).

He was watching Yuuri, the television screen illuminating his face with soft, blue light. Yuuri smiled at him, hesitantly, before looking away. “I’m serious,” he said. “We’re not sharing a bed.”

“Relax,” Nikiforov said, “your bed has better view of T.V., that is all.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, unconvinced. He got up, passing the remote to Nikiforov, and went in for a shower. By the time he got out, rubbing at the lens of his steamed-up spectacles with the hem of his t-shirt, the television was on mute. Onscreen, a pair of hands was pouring white, peaked cream in beautiful folds, all over the chilled sponge. Nikiforov was back on his own bed, petting Makkachin. He seemed to be reading something with intent. Yuuri squinted—put his spectacles on—and then sighed.

“That file was locked away for a reason,” Yuuri said, carefully plucking it out of Nikiforov’s hands. Nikiforov tipped his head back, smile ticking up on one side of his face. He didn’t look the least bit perturbed for having been caught out.

“Then it shouldn’t have my name on it.”

“Vain,” Yuuri concluded, teasingly more than anything else. After a moment, he tossed the file back onto the bed. It flipped open to the black and white photo.

“Curious,” Nikiforov countered, “and justly so.” He was taking the photo out of its paperclip, holding it to the light.

“Well. We didn’t have much on you anyway—so don’t make fun,” and he gave Nikiforov a small, embarrassed smile.

“I would never,” Nikiforov said seriously. A pause, then: “It is nice seeing Juan. I miss him. We had a magical time in South Africa, you know. He took me to the sea—” Nikiforov broke off at Yuuri’s expression, and laughed. “Oh, nothing so _indelicate_ —”

“I didn’t say—”

“You did. Just not with words.” He snorted. “Please, he is too old for me.”

“It’s none of my business—”

“Are you certain?” Nikiforov asked. Then, soft: “You can ask me anything you are curious about, Yuuri. I am much more than these five pages of your file—”

“I _know_ that,” Yuuri said, with a strange vehemence of feeling, and Nikiforov’s mouth snapped shut. “Of all people, _I_ know.” His heart hammered in his throat, a trapped thing. He didn’t know what he meant—he’d only known Nikiforov for _four days_ , for god’s sake—but Nikiforov only nodded, as if this confirmed something he had long suspected.

“Okay,” he said simply, and picked up the telephone in between their beds. “Let us order room service. Then I will tell you about the time I— _allegedly_ —stole Tipu Sultan’s sword.”

Yuuri couldn’t help it: he burst out laughing. “I always thought that was you.”

“Did you really,” Nikiforov said, looking pleased.

“How did you go about it?”

“Well, first—and to this day, no one knows it was me—I had to pretend I was Vladimir Putin’s wife.”

“Is he even married?”

“He is not! This is why the tale is so wonderful— _allegedly_ wonderful, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” 

 

 -|-

 

Sometime in the middle of the night, Yuuri woke up with his face crushed against a hard stack of papers. Fucking—flight logs. The wooden edge of the desk was jutting uncomfortably into his stomach, and there was a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. It was very gentle. “What,” he said.

“Yuuri,” Viktor was saying, now taking off his glasses, fingers skimming the back of his ears. Yuuri blinked, and rubbed at his nose. “Come to bed.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, and let himself be led somewhere soft. “You smell nice,” he told Viktor, his face sinking into a pillow—and did not stay awake to hear the reply.

 

 

  -| APRIL 6, 2005: ONE DAY TO GO |-

 

 

Yuuri’s eyes flew open: Makkachin was standing upright on his chest, staring down at him. Behind her, the hotel dustbin was overturned, and the mini-fridge was ominously ajar. It was early morning. “Okay, okay,” Yuuri reassured her, before abruptly becoming aware of Nikiforov’s body curled against his side. He was solid and sleep-warm, snoring into Yuuri’s shoulder. 

Yuuri shifted, leveraging his elbow, and a streak of sunlight dashed across Nikiforov’s face from the gap in the curtains. It turned his eyelashes silver, casting smeary shadows across his cheeks.

Slowly, and with no small amount of horror, Yuuri extricated himself from the situation. Nikiforov did not stir.

He dressed, and took Makkachin down to the lobby. The night manager was nearing the end of her shift, but was happy to give Yuuri directions to a store where he could buy some dog food for Makkachin—and even gave Makkachin a thorough tummy rub. When Yuuri returned to the room, carrying her in his arms, Nikiforov was awake. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still in his pyjamas.

“Oh—good,” he said, rising, and took the grocery bags from Yuuri, pressing a kiss between Makkachin’s eyes with one hand braced lightly on Yuuri’s chest. “I thought you two had abandoned me.” And Yuuri stood there, watching him pour biscuits into a bowl. An unreal, dream-like feeling was trickling through his body.

“Tea or coffee, my Yuuri?” Nikiforov asked, flipping through the tea brands, a frown of concentration on his face. There was an excited yip: Yuuri turned. Makkachin had wriggled out of his hold and was now attacking her chewables with the zest of an industrial wrecking ball, tail wagging. A kettle was steaming, there, in the corner, and the curtains had been flung wide open in Yuuri’s absence. The room was awash in clean, golden light. 

“Do they have _hōjicha_?” Yuuri asked, after a long moment. He felt he might cry.

“Hm. Is this—no. No, they do not have it,” Nikiforov answered.

“Then anything,” Yuuri said, “anything is fine.”

 

 -|-

 

“Nice,” Plisetsky pronounced, slowly turning around and drinking in the museum’s surveillance room. “Very nice. Let’s start the equipment check.”

Babicheva nodded, and then pressed down on her walkie-talkie. “Testing. Do you copy?”

On one of the sixteen screens in front of her, the tiny figure of a museum security personnel turned towards the camera and gave a thumbs up. “Copy,” came the crackling voice.

“Excellent,” Babicheva said. “Let’s pull up the East Wing on screen four—oh, and while _you’re_ here,” she turned to Nikiforov, “still got your jewellery?”

Nikiforov pushed his sleeve up, showing her his wrist. He looked bored, and had been leaning against one of the filing cabinets the entire while, sending small shoves to Yuuri’s ankle every now and then with his foot. Yuuri hadn’t responded out of dignity, but it was an uphill struggle not to grin.

The strange morning mood had quite dissipated, and he was now eager to explore the _Arbol_ , which had been closed to the public today in preparation. Altin had led them straight here, and he’d barely caught a glimpse of the Magritte exhibit.

Babicheva stuck a silver device into one of the slots by the control board—it had a small red light that matched the one on Nikiforov’s tracking device. One of the screens blacked out completely, and then came back online with a hypnotic overlay of green grids. There was a large, pulsing dot located somewhere to the side, and numbers kept flashing on the screen intermittently.

“Congratulations, your heart rate is at a healthy 60bpm,” Babicheva informed him, taking out the device. The screen went blank, and shuddered to life again with footage of a corridor. She handed it to one of the technicians: “I need you to sync this with the museum’s layout—great, thank you.” Babicheva turned to Nikiforov. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she continued, and then smiled, “it’s just that I don’t trust you.” 

 

-|-

 

Yuuri and Nikiforov walked up to the giant, curved expanse of empty white wall where one of the curators was arguing with a light technician (“No, no, the lighting is all wrong, I need _soft_ , not gentle— _yes_ , there’s a difference—”). He could make out markings, small crosses done in pencil indicating where the canvas would be hung once it arrived: it looked to be about three feet by two, quite small. Babicheva and Plisetsky, meanwhile, were back in the surveillance room, compiling the list of all the red flags from the flight logs.

“What do you think?” Yuuri asked, curious. Nikiforov’s face was giving nothing away. They were standing in a circular room with four entryways, all equidistant from each other. The walls sloped upwards, almost endlessly, enough that Yuuri couldn’t tell if they were narrowing as they progressed higher. There was no skylight, or any manner of glass letting in natural light: the space was to be illuminated entirely electrically.

“I think it is an ugly room,” Nikiforov said, “and it will not be improved by the _Punto Rojo_.” Yuuri made a small noise: it seemed an overly harsh thing to say. “Have you seen this painting which you are going to such length to protect?”

“I—no, actually. I haven’t.”

Nikiforov held out one of the promotional pamphlets they’d seen being stocked by the cartload at the museum entrance. Yuuri took it, opening the pages to the centerfold. On the left of the page were three short paragraphs: the biography of the artist responsible, Pablo Reginald, who had keeled over while working on this very painting. The culprit, depressingly, had been cholesterol. On the right was a replication of the painting. It was a white canvas with a red circle in the middle. Four lines slashed through the circle in asterisk formation, disrupting the paint—it had been done with a broken palette knife, Yuuri read.

Nikiforov traced each of the knife lines on the page for Yuuri. “He said it came to him in dream. Our world on this plane—this long one. Eight planes in the universe, total. They intersect in this fire. And the white—is big unknown beyond the unknown.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” Nikiforov said, looking away. “To me, it looks like raw asshole.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri hissed, immediately pulling them away from the curator’s earshot.

Nikiforov was gazing ahead at the wall, grinning. Not even turning to look at Yuuri, he said, “Finally, he calls me Viktor. All I had to do was talk about asshole!”

“ _Mr. Nikiforov_ —”

“Asshole,” Nikiforov said, promptly. “Asshole, asshole, asshole.”

“You know what, you just have a bias against modern art. That’s what your problem is.”

Nikiforov did a double-take at that, and looked at Yuuri, incredulous. Then: “Wrong. You have never seen me and a Kahlo in same room, that is why you speak in such ignorance. I have _bias_ against any art which does not make me _feel_ ,” he pressed his index finger to his chest, so theatrically that Yuuri had to forcibly repress the urge to snort, “in _here_.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, shrugging, as if he didn’t really buy what Nikiforov had said at all. It paid off: Nikiforov let out an exhale of indignance, and seemed seconds away from stomping his foot. Yuuri ducked his head, hiding a smile.

“So, the head of security told me they’ll be sealing three of these,” he pointed at the respective doorways. “There’ll only be one way in or out, and an emergency lever to shut it down, there. Cameras are here, here, there—and there.”

“Hm,” Nikiforov said. “No corners in this room—no blind spots. Good.”

“What time do you think the attempt might take place?”

“Time with most crowd is best time. The more the crowd, the more distracted is crowd control.” He nodded at one of the burly men hanging by the northern doorway, who was clad in a black uniform and had a baton in his holster. “So—opening time through evening hours, I think.”

“Anything else?”

“I should be on the floor in this exhibit, watching entrance. Might be able to catch some signs.” Nikiforov said, strolling out the room now. Yuuri followed him. They both stopped to give way to two personnel carrying out a marble statue on wheels from a neighbouring exhibit and crossed over into the First World War gallery.

“Okay,” Yuuri said. “That’s a good idea, I’ll pitch it to McTavish first thing when she gets here.” He stopped then, and slowly spun on spot. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yes,” Nikiforov agreed, and after a protracted moment he walked over to a plaque detailing the painting Yuuri liked best. It was two soldiers lying low in the trenches, on their elbows, kissing as gunfire and shells exploded overhead. It had been done in the softest of pinks, purples and blues, with just the barest brown: and yet, looking at it more and more, Yuuri thought he could as soon feel the grit of dust in his eye as he could the dreamy pressure of the soldier’s hand on his thigh. It made him feel strange; his face warmed up, and when Nikiforov spoke up again, he found he couldn’t make eye contact.

“I love this artist. He is one of my favourite—I saw his work in a private collection in Prague, once—”

“Oh?” Yuuri said, moving his gaze off to the side towards the glass display box, which held a mounted cigarette lighter. It was battered, and rusted all over. Where once it must’ve been silver, it was now mottled black and deep red.

“Thomas Barrow,” Nikiforov said. “He was, how you say—con, consecrated—”

“Conscripted?”

“Conscripted. But one night, he clicked lighter and raised it, high,” and here, he tapped the glass, “and from across landmine the Germans shot straight at the light. It got him discharged. Lost all nerves in right hand, but it is okay. He used left hand to paint.” Nikiforov stepped to the side, studying the painting once more. “Very clever man.”

“Who do you think Jimmy was?” Yuuri asked, fingers hovering over the inscription at the bottom right of the painting. Nikiforov didn’t answer, so Yuuri looked at him—he was looking back with a knowing smile on his face.

“Take a guess,” Nikiforov said simply.

Yuuri exhaled. “His lover.”

“Obviously. The reason he let the Germans take his hand, to return to his Jimmy. They died together, very old, somewhere in British countryside.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said: and there was that morning mood again, coursing through his chest. It _was_ obvious, actually—they were _kissing_ , right in front of his face. He felt stupid for having asked. “That—that’s very romantic.”

“Too much fog and sheep for me,” Nikiforov said, and then looked at Yuuri: “Oh, you mean the—yes, yes it is,” he allowed, and smiled again, before glancing down at the cigarette lighter. “You said you do not smoke?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Nikiforov said, and turned on his heel without explaining. “Come, let’s leave now. I want you to take me shopping.”

 

 -|-

 

Nikiforov twirled into the hotel room with two shopping bags on each arm and sat down on his bed, making a noise of contentment. Yuuri followed, shutting the door behind him.

Makkachin bounded up to Nikiforov and began barking at his ankles, trying to jump up and reach at his lap. She got a good few minutes of petting for her efforts, and then padded away to continue her vigil by the dustbin. Yuuri threw her a chew-toy, and walked over to where Nikiforov sat. He was feeling light: in his head, in his heart. Everywhere.

Nikiforov took out a baby pink cashmere sweater from one of the bags. He hugged it to his chest, looking up at Yuuri: “Is it not the most _perfect_ and _wonderful_ —” and broke off, as Yuuri stepped into the space between Nikiforov’s legs, chest level with his face.

Cool, blue evening light was streaming through the windows. Yuuri brushed aside Nikiforov’s fringe and held it there, fingers resting at his temple. “It’s pretty,” Yuuri agreed, giving him a small smile. Nikiforov said nothing. His chin was lifted, and he watched Yuuri with a very steady gaze. 

So Yuuri, feeling very fond—and very brave—leaned down to kiss him.

There was a soft sigh: Nikiforov opened his mouth, slinging his arms around Yuuri’s hips. They kissed like that for a few seconds, until Yuuri pulled off: “One second—” and folded his fogged-up spectacles, placing them on the side. Nikiforov— _Viktor_ —impatiently reached out for his face with both hands, pulling him down: and for some reason it was this action, more than even the kissing, which made Yuuri blush.

He kissed Viktor deeply, tasting the wet heat of his mouth, the sweetness from the praline ice cream they’d shared walking back to the hotel. And when Viktor’s breath hitched, and his mouth seemed to slacken, Yuuri understood that too: he shortened his kisses, made them shallower and more tender, as tender as he could, until Viktor pulled away.

They stared at each other for a long moment, breathing heavily. There was something of distress in Viktor’s face. Yuuri kissed his forehead lightly, and when he looked again, it had been smoothed away.

“Are you all right?” Yuuri asked, anxiety beginning to rear its head from the pits of his stomach. Viktor nodded, hesitating—and then smiled his real smile, nothing knowing or smooth about it. It was wide and goofy, showing off all his teeth. Yuuri smiled back, relieved.

“I think I broke my promise,” he confided. 

“No,” Viktor said, deathly serious. “You did not. You had already caught _this_ thief,” and he took Yuuri’s hand, and held it over his heart, so there would be no mistaking his meaning, “long time before we kiss.”

Yuuri groaned out loud, as if he wasn’t dizzied by the sheer romance of it all. “That’s too much,” he complained, as he cupped Viktor’s neck with his other hand.

“Sorry,” Viktor shrugged, not looking the least apologetic. “I am Russian. We do not feel with baby steps. We march! Read Tolstoy, then you will understand.”

“Oh, he’s so boring. I could never finish _Anna Karenina_.”

There was an uncertain pause, then: “ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor said in dismay.

“I’m sorry, it’s true. I can’t help it,” Yuuri said, pressing back a smile. “Does this change everything?”

“It is changing nothing,” Viktor replied, though he looked put-out. Yuuri leaned down, kissing him again for his troubles.

“I need to go finalise some things with, uh, Babicheva and Plisetsky, will you be all right here?”

“So much worry,” Viktor smiled, already scooting up the bed and taking the television remote. He handed over Yuuri’s spectacles. “Go, my Yuuri. Go and fulfill your very important duties.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, fitting the glasses back on his nose. “I might be out late, so I’ll just take the key-card.” He left Viktor flipping channels.

By the time he returned, it was past midnight. The television had been switched off and the room was dark. Viktor lay asleep under the blankets, with Makkachin draped over his knees. Yuuri thought, for a second, about joining Viktor under the covers—but no, that would just wake both of them up. And besides, if all went well tomorrow, they’d have time to share a bed—all the time in the world, even—

A gust of air blew past Yuuri’s ankles. He startled, then walked over to the windows to close them. His hands paused on the handles—and on a whim, he opened them wider and peered outside, assessing. No nearby balconies, no piping. He looked back at Viktor’s sleeping figure, and out the window again: it was a smooth four-storey drop to the ground.

Yuuri shook off whatever he was feeling and went to bed. 

 

 

-| APRIL 7, 2005: THE DAY |- 

 

 

“Katsuki! Fire!” Babicheva yelled into his ear, and Yuuri woke with a start. He groped around for his glasses and put them on, blinking.

“What the hell.”

“Museum’s opened. _Punto Rojo_ unveils in one hour,” Babicheva informed him. Yuuri glanced over at Viktor’s bed: it was neatly made and empty. There was no sign of Makkachin, either. “Altin already took them to the _Arbol_ ,” she said, following his gaze. “McTavish wanted to meet our friendly mastermind before the show started.”

“McTavish is here?”

“My friend, you are so far behind the fucking times," Babicheva said, though not without cheer. She even managed to smack Yuuri’s ass as he jumped out of bed and speed-dressed.

When they reached the museum, Altin was outside with Makkachin in his arms. She was wrapped in a large plaid dog jacket that he and Viktor had bought yesterday—it was snugly tightened around her belly. Plisetsky stood behind Altin like his ghost, and gave Babicheva and Yuuri a stiff nod.

“What is she doing out here?” Yuuri asked, as Makkachin yipped and eagerly licked at his offered hand. The cordoned line for the _Arbol_ stretched around the block, and there were several cameramen and reporters milling by the steps, interviewing any security personnel they could flag. 

Plisetsky rolled his eyes so hard that Yuuri feared for his ocular muscles. “They don’t allow mutts inside art museums, duh. Otabek was forced to baby-sit—”

“I volunteered,” Altin said mildly.

“All right,” Yuuri said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. “What are _you_ doing out here?”

Plisetsky seemed to colour a delicate pink at this question. “I don’t have much to do, okay? McTavish said she’d ask for me if needed.”

Babicheva smirked. “Keep your walkie-talkie close. And inspector, keep your wits about you. You’re babysitting _two_ pups.”

They left before Plisetsky could develop any more froth around the mouth. 

 

-|-

 

The museum was filling up. Babicheva and Yuuri shouldered past civilians on their way to the surveillance room, and the black-clad personnel checked their ID before admitting them inside. McTavish was there, one hand braced on the control board, scanning the screens.

“Have they opened up the _Punto Rojo_ yet?” asked Babicheva, as Yuuri shook hands with McTavish. She gave him a dry look and focused back on the screens as soon as Yuuri dropped his hand; it was practically a warm hug by McTavish standards. 

“No, in another ten minutes or so,” one of the administrators standing at the back of the room answered. “That entrance is currently cordoned off,” and she pointed at the relevant screen. 

“Where’s Vi—uh, Nikiforov?”

“The First World War gallery, as Mila said you’d suggested,” McTavish replied. Yuuri searched—yes, Viktor was there, idling among the civilians, by the cigarette lighter display case, of course. He smiled, feeling a rush of affection, and then quickly blanked his face. “I want to see the names you collated,” she continued.

Babicheva handed her two sheets of paper. McTavish flipped through them.

“These were all the red-flags,” Yuuri explained. “Extended tourism stays with no checked-in luggage and the like, some names which pinged off aliases in the database—we’ve got a separate file of corresponding photo identification which we’ve given to the personnel regulating entry.”

McTavish pursed her lips somewhere towards the middle of the second sheet. “Jesus, ‘John Jack Leeroy’. If that’s a fake name, it’s the worst one.” 

 

-|-

 

Jean-Jacques Leroy picked his way through people in the Baroque exhibit, pretending he was talking to someone on his flip-phone, and then froze for half a second. He recovered, and then nodded towards the _Las Meninas,_ covering up the gesture by itching his chin.

Leroy strolled over to the painting after lingering very appropriately at three others for an average of 2.5 minutes each. There was a sizeable number of people crowded around it, including Sala Crispino and Seung-gil Lee, who were waiting for him. Crispino was dressed for the part of married tourist, right down to the fanny pack and beige trouser shorts. She was reading an informational brochure and mouthing the words slowly, a lollipop in one hand. Lee was a student: generic sweatshirt, Walkman visible from one side of the sagging central pocket. He took one earbud out, continuing to look vacant and bored.

Sala put the lollipop in her mouth and swirled it around for a few seconds. Then, without looking at either of them: “Job?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Lee pressed the bud back in, and discreetly pressed pause on his Walkman. “The  _Bacchus_ ,” he offered, barely moving his lips. He bobbed his head in time with a beat which did not exist.

“Same.”

“Same.”

“Contract?” Leroy asked into his phone, frowning at his wristwatch.

“Contract.”

“Contract.”

“Well, ladies.” The lollipop stick shifted from one side of Sala’s mouth to the other: she took it out with a _pop_ , studying _Las Meninas_ intently. “Someone’s set us up to run interference. As the French say, I’m getting à la fuck out of here, and so should you.” She wandered over to the next painting, turning the pages of her brochure. Leroy shot a quick text to Isabella: GEESE XOXO, and then slid the phone into his breast pocket.

“Do your people really say that?” Lee asked, bending down to tie a shoelace that was already perfectly knotted.

“I’m Canadian, not French.”

Lee straightened. “What you’ve said means nothing to me,” he said, before stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets and walking away.  

 

-|- 

 

Yuuri was absorbed in thoughts about how cute Viktor’s balding-spot was. Specifically, what a shame it was that he had not kissed it. It would have prickled at Viktor’s vanity too, his subsequent reaction likely prompting another aneurysm of affection in Yuuri’s brain. He was so absorbed in this hypothetical that it took a full four seconds to realise Viktor had upped and left the gallery without giving the prearranged signal to one of the cameras.

“Where has he gone?” he asked the technician manning the camera feeds. They began to switch through the feeds from nearby cameras, as Babicheva and McTavish broke off from their conversation to join him.

“There,” Babicheva said, and they could see Nikiforov neatly turn a corner and disappear into the men’s bathroom. “A piss, do you think?” she asked.

“He’s either taking one, or he’s taking it,” McTavish said grimly. “Check his tracker,” she commanded, and, oh, _oh_ , a giddy feeling began to take over Yuuri. But he’d known, hadn’t he? Right from the matter of those confounding weight sensors.

“His heart rate is at 220bpm—”

“How is that _possible_ —is he OD’ing in the fucking urinals?”

“He’s not even _in_ the museum, the grid says he’s _outside_ —”

McTavish’s phone began to ring: she snapped it open. “Inspector Altin?” she said. A beat, then: “They found the location tracker on his dog when they were taking the coat off.”

Yuuri let out a laugh in pure delight, and then clapped his hand over his mouth. Then, taking it off: “It’s him. Nikiforov is going for the _Punto Rojo_.”

“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” Babicheva said. “Keep one feed on the bathroom entrance, switch the rest to the _Punto Rojo_. Entrance still cordoned? Excellent, and the inside, I want every angle you have on those screens. Actually, give me the sealed exits too—”

The head of security, Isobel, was uselessly clicking at her radio transceiver. “Is yours working?” she asked, alarmed. “I can’t get through to José or Suren—they’re manning the entrance—”

“That must be why Altin called,” Yuuri said, already having abandoned his walkie-talkie and running his fingers under the bottoms of tables, behind the bulky CPUs. “I’m almost certain he’s put a signal jammer here.”

Damn, the effort to find it would quite literally be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. This _man_. Yuuri was going to kill him. Or kiss him. It was yet to be decided. He certainly wasn’t stooping to become a conjugal visit once Viktor was behind bars.

“The personnel outside the door, send one of them to the men’s bathroom,” McTavish instructed an administrator, who looked very pale indeed. Another was on their phone, no doubt in urgent talks with the insurance company. “Yes, that’s the right idea. Everyone, use your _bloody phones_ —”

“It’s ringing,” Isobel said. They watched the screen: the man on the left of the rope, José, reached for his trouser pocket just as a lady strode down the corridor with a massive cart covered over with black tarpaulin sheet. Yuuri gave a start: oh, it was decided. _Kill_. Because though the feed was mostly sepia, he knew the colours: red hair and a purple sundress patterned with yellow sunflowers, complete with a charcoal gray blazer. Yuuri had seen that exact ensemble yesterday, right down to the wig, on a _mannequin_.

“That’s him,” Yuuri said, as Isobel said simultaneously, “Come on, José.” 

“Send someone there running—”

“Boss.” Babicheva said. “Boss, he’s pretending he’s you.”

“I _know_ ,” McTavish snapped.

There was no audio, but Viktor was showing ID, and after a moment, José and Suren lifted the rope and let him roll the cart through.

“Switch to the interior cameras!”

Altin and Plisetsky burst into the room, apparently abreast of the situation. “We have a tactical team on standby for exactly this kind of situation, twenty of our finest. They’re on their way,” Altin said, as they watched José pick up the phone. “Should I inform personnel to shut the museum down and evacuate civilians?” He looked at McTavish’s expression, and confirmed: “I’ll inform personnel to shut the museum down and evacuate civilians.”

“José, it’s _Nikiforov_ , you just let Nikiforov through!” Isobel yelled at the screen.

José swirled around, but on the neighbouring screen Viktor had already pulled the emergency lever; the steel-reinforced door came sliding, and Viktor aimed a kick at José’s shin, pushing him out the away. The door slammed down, shutting him and the _Punto Rojo_ in, and everyone else out.

Six camera angles showed Viktor artfully shrugging off his outfit, revealing a sleek and sleeveless black onesie beneath. Yuuri nearly gasped, and Babicheva actually did. 

“How long will it take to get those doors open?” McTavish asked Isobel.

Isobel answered, “The override option takes seven minutes to activate,” as the Director General of the _Arbol_ walked in with his entourage.

“What in _God’s_ name—” he began, and McTavish held up a silencing finger, pointing at the screen.

“The hell is _that_ ,” she said.

Viktor had yanked the cover off the cart, and was now exerting all his strength into tipping it over. It was an industrial-sized thing, and curiously steaming.

“Oh,” one of curators suddenly said, tremulously. “Oh my. That’s our modified dry ice. Four hundred pounds of it, by the size of that container—”

“Why,” McTavish asked dangerously, “do you have this much dry ice in the house?”

“To clean the statues!” the curator replied, as if it were perfectly obvious. “It’s not all paint on canvas, you know! This museum has other works of art! I hear this kind of superior talk every day while I’m at work—”

“Susan, is now really the time—”

“There’s _never_ a good time with you, Carlos—”

“The team is here,” Altin said, hanging up his phone, as the cart tipped over. Steaming white blocks slid all over the floor, and Viktor began kicking them nearer beneath the cameras.

Then, he gracefully toed over the rest of them on his way to the wall where the _Punto Rojo_ hung, and drew something from his waist: a simple blade. They watched him methodically strip the hundred million dollar canvas from its frame, and it fell like meat off a bone. He rolled it up, stuffing it securely down his front. There was a whimper from one of the curators.

“He really thinks he’s going to make it out of here,” Yuuri said wonderingly, to no one in particular. Plisetsky emerged with a yell from behind a filing cabinet, the one Viktor had played one-sided footsie with Yuuri against. There was a black pod in his hand: the signal jammer. At the front of the room, the technicians reported, dully, that seven separate alarms had gone off. Redundant news all around.

McTavish put out a hand for Altin’s phone, who passed it over, speedily. She held it to her ear: “Ms. Buendia, hello. You and your team have three minutes and,” she leaned over a technician’s shoulder, reading the display, “nineteen seconds before all four doors override. I want five of you at each entrance. Circle this entire place.”

Inside, Viktor was standing in the dead-centre of the room, on top of the tarpaulin, looking at his wristwatch.

“What’s your game, come on,” Yuuri said. “What’s the dry ice for?”

“ _Modified_ dry ice—”

“Susan,” Babicheva said in a warning tone. 

They all stood there, shoulder to shoulder, scanning the screens with bated breath, as the sixty second countdown begun.

Viktor glanced up and looked right into the camera, pressing two fingers to his lips, and then to his heart. Babicheva turned to look sharply at Yuuri, who remained poker-faced, watching as Viktor proceeded to whip out a gun from his onesie and shoot the fire alarm.

Thirty sprinklers detached from the ceiling and a siren began wailing through the entire building.

“Oh, so that’s what the modified dry ice was for,” Yuuri said, as the entire room disappeared in a haze of impenetrable fog.

“They need to stand their stations,” McTavish said, reaching for the phone. “Visibility is negligible, they need to wait for this to clear—” the doors rose, and the tactical units entered with their guns trained into the mist. “ _Dammit_.”

But the inflow of air from the outside was making quick work of the fog, dissipating it faster than Yuuri would’ve thought.

A few minutes later, McTavish’s phone rang. She picked it up, wearily: “Yes, Buendia. Yes, I _am_ seeing what you’re seeing.” The fog had cleared.

Nikiforov was gone. 

 

-|- 

 

An hour later, Yuuri got down on his haunches as the last of the forensic experts moved past him to photograph the empty frame. He examined the tarpaulin: it had been slashed open. Yuuri pulled at the cut with two fingers, revealing empty lining. Then, he turned a corner over, inspecting the underside, which was also wet.

“Any ideas, hotshot?” Babicheva asked. One of the tactical units bumped into her on their way out and apologised. Yuuri straightened up, taking in what they were wearing. It was heavy duty: a Kevlar vest, black gear, protective mask, and a gun. He then dropped down again, and pulled at the lining, trying to see exactly how much space was in there.

“I think we need to check the tapes again.” 

 

-|- 

 

McTavish clucked her tongue as Yuuri pressed the heel of his palm into his eye, annoyed and wildly impressed all at once.

“This mother _fucker_ ,” Plisetsky said, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Twenty tactical units had been sanctioned for this operation, but according to footage of the room, just as the fog had been clearing, there were now twenty one.

“Can you enhance that,” Yuuri said, pointing at one of the feeds. “The unit to the extreme right, his hip area, yes, thank you.”

The technician zoomed in. “Stop, right there. _That_.”

Pixelated, but unmistakable: an ‘I (HEART) SPAIN’ keychain, swinging from a belt loop. 

 

 

-| SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE OF JUNE, 2005: TWO MONTHS LATER |- 

 

 

After the _Punto Rojo_ incident, Yuuri sensed something had changed in him. For one, he’d become freer with his laughter. Better at recognising the things that mattered, and the things that didn’t. It all seemed startlingly simple now. If Yuuri ever narrated these quiet epiphanies to his mother, she’d tap him over the head with a spatula and tell him to listen to her more.

Then there was Makkachin, who had come home with him. Viktor had figured a way through immigration, after all: she was “evidence” in Interpol’s internal investigation of their team’s conduct.

McTavish had escaped the chopping block, but only just: a transcript had been unearthed of the meeting between all of the Interpol higher-ups a week before Nikiforov’s transfer. In it, McTavish had been the only party to vociferously protest cutting a deal, saying that it would give “unprecedented access to Interpol workings” to a man who would “absolutely adore said access.”

Babicheva and Plisetsky had breezed through their respective internal investigations, but it had taken a bit longer for Yuuri.

“You were Nikiforov’s handler,” the man with wire-rim glasses had said, in a nasal tone Yuuri immediately disliked. “It is a position that engenders… intimacy. Perhaps there were times you felt—or that he made you feel—that you wanted something more emotional. Or more physical.”

“Physical? I mean, sure, I guess,” the man had leaned forward, triumphant, “in so far as I restrained myself from _physically_ wringing his neck on multiple occasions.” After seven hours of uninterrupted interrogation, Yuuri had been about three seconds away from pulling out a southern accent and reassuring this man he did _not_ have sexual relations with that art thief.

“And what about this? Can you explain this?” the man had said, showing him the camera footage of Viktor putting his fingers to his lips and then to his chest. Yuuri had wanted to throw his hands up in resignation: _he’s a dumb romantic and you don’t know the half I’ve put up with!_

He had settled for a bland smile: “I think he was gloating. It’s common practice in Russia.”

They’d cleared him eventually, but Yuuri gave his two-weeks notice anyway. It was around the same time the media discovered the identity of the owner of the _Punto Rojo._ He had inherited a large private water company that operated out of America and Mexico the year before, and had been trying to price entire districts out of their basic utilities. He was also a two-time convicted sex offender who had never served a day of his sentence. After this revelation, there was a lot less public pressure on Interpol to find Viktor’s whereabouts. There may even have been some internal memos from P.R. suggesting that the agents on the case go _very_ slowly; there was _no_ rush.   

“Tell him he’s the world’s biggest motherfucker,” Plisetsky had said, by way of goodbye.

“Tell him I say hi, and that he still owes me ten euros for the thing. He’ll know what you mean,” Babicheva had added.

“I don’t know what any of you are talking about,” Yuuri had said, clearing his desk.

It was after he’d quit, and before he’d made up his mind to visit home, that the packages started arriving. One day, a miniature wooden houseboat with a blank postcard from the backwaters of Kerala; the other day, a porcelain doll stuffed into a box with silk lining, postmarked Windsor. The truly massive crate containing the collected works of Leo Tolstoy had made Yuuri laugh: it was amazing how an inanimate object could convey so much petulance.

He’d also visited Phichit in Bangkok for a weekend, finally spending some of that overtime pay. Astonishingly, there’d been a delivery of white tulips waiting for him the very first morning.

“You can’t say he’s not committed to the effort,” Phichit had remarked.

“No,” Yuuri had said, nosing the petals and inhaling deeply, “you can’t say that at all.”

 

 

 

Yuuri took the bowl of fresh green pea pods out to the veranda. He sat down on a step, stretching his legs so that his bare feet touched the mud. Makkachin trotted behind him, and came to a stop in his lap. He gave her a look, and then substituted her for the bowl. She woofed, but seemed to bear the indignity exceedingly well and settled at Yuuri’s feet instead.

The sun was beginning to set. There had been a cold spell in Hasetsu, around mid-May; the cherry blossoms had bloomed late, and had begun to wither only yesterday.

“Yuuri-kun,” his mother called from inside the house. “Have you seen my peas?” Makkachin sat up, barking.

Yuuri turned. “Don’t worry, ma, I’ve got them!” When he turned back, Viktor was standing in front of him with a large suitcase in one hand. 

“Hi,” he said, looking very somber as Makkachin ran circles around his ankles.

Yuuri stared at him. In slow movements, he put aside his shelled peas and dusted his hands. Then, holding them out: “I’ve missed you.”

Viktor collapsed to his knees, as if all the air had been let out of him; he scooped Makkachin up and kissed her fiercely, several times, before burying his face in Yuuri’s hands, breathing him in.

“Don’t do that, I smell of peas,” Yuuri said, half-laughing, a weird lump in his throat.

“Peas are the most excellent,” Viktor replied, looking up at him. “I love peas.” There was a light dusting of whitish pink blossoms in his hair: he must’ve taken the path under the trees to get here unseen, Yuuri realised. He cleared a space for Viktor on the steps, and Viktor settled comfortably, pressing himself flush against Yuuri’s side.  

Yuuri pulled the bowl back into his lap, and started shelling the last of the peas. “You gave me a lot of grief, you know,” he said, feeling it was inappropriate if he didn’t express some anger.  

“I know this,” Viktor said. “That is why I am here. Now I will give you lots of happiness and only very tiny little grief,” and Yuuri laughed, shoving at Viktor’s shoulder. He shoved back, and then, leaning in, kissed Yuuri hard on the cheek—then on the corner of his mouth—and stayed there, breathing warmly against Yuuri’s jaw.

Yuuri reached out to cup Viktor’s neck, and pushed him back a little to better inspect his face.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” he asked, thumb stroking the divot of Viktor’s chin, moving upwards. Viktor didn’t answer: he parted his lips, and closed them around the flesh of Yuuri’s thumb, sucking.  

A soft bite, then: “Peas,” Viktor confirmed. Yuuri took his thumb away and kissed him, with vehemence. Viktor groaned happily into his mouth, bracing both his hands on Yuuri’s chest.

When they broke off, Viktor said: “Good. You kiss me like you have been reading Tolstoy.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Also, I like your new hair. Long is very nice.”

“Thank you very much. I like what’s left of yours.”

“Wound after wound,” Viktor muttered, and took out a cigarette from his coat pocket. “Do you want one?” he said, offering it to Yuuri.

“Viktor, you _know_ I don’t smoke.”

“Then what is that lighter there?”

Yuuri glanced to his other side: a battered, rusted and very familiar cigarette lighter was resting on the veranda. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, mute.

“It was insured, do not worry. They were going to put it out of display rotation forever. So I thought: no, this cannot be. You like?”

Yuuri swallowed, then smiled tight. He did not immediately reply.

For a moment, he was standing in the First World War gallery again, listening to Viktor talk about Germans and left-handed artists, and the love one grew old and died with somewhere in the British countryside, amid too much fog and sheep; the _great_ love. Yuuri looked at Viktor, who looked right back, quite unaware of the overwhelming epiphanies taking place in Yuuri’s chest. Had he already known, then, in the gallery? Had Yuuri always been one step behind? He must have been: for god’s sake, there was a _suitcase_ , right in front of his face.  

“I like,” he managed to say (he’d save the tears for later: Viktor would be delighted), slipping the lighter into his pocket. Then he got up, hefting Viktor’s suitcase with one hand. “Want to meet my mother?”

“Of course. Why else do I travel all this way to middle of nowhere place with only one gas station? Surely not for you.”

Yuuri smiled, and took Viktor’s wrist with his free hand. “She’s making katsudon for dinner. I think you’re going to love it,” he said, and led Viktor home.  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the museo del arbol is based off the beautiful, beautiful museo nacional del prado. it DOES house _las meninas_ by diego velazquez (though _bacchus_ by carvaggio is twirling his ivy somewhere in florence). 
> 
> thank you for reading <3 i'd love to hear your thoughts/feedback: if you like this story, you can [reblog it](http://rvancoogler.tumblr.com/post/169078272386/the-viktor-nikiforov-affair-rating-t-word) on tumblr!


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